


Walk this Line

by Bastetian



Category: REILLY Matthew - Works, Scarecrow Series - Matthew Reilly
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-03-19 06:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13699002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bastetian/pseuds/Bastetian
Summary: a love story in twelve parts. Except this isn't a love story, it's a train wreck.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "He talked about you, you know," Book II said. "Said you were one of the finest commanders he'd ever served under. Said he loved you like his own son, like me. I don't apologise for being a little cold toward you, Captain. I just had to get your measure, make my mind up for myself."  
> "And your decision?"  
> "I'm still making up my mind."

As he left the medical bay at Quantico, Shane Schofield just about tripped over the feet of one Buck Riley Junior, sprawled out on the low benches that lined the walls of the waiting area, dozing lightly. He was the only one there.

Carefully, Schofield nudged his calf with the toe of his boot until Riley stirred, groaning and rolling out stiff shoulders. It had been one hell of a day.

“What are you still doing here?” Schofield asked as he shrugged the jacket of his dress blues straight over the plain white tank top he was wearing. The formal shirt of his uniform was ruined beyond repair, and the dark red stain that covered the left shoulder of his jacket was going to be a bitch to remove too. Riley was uninjured. His uniform rumpled, but clean. He should’ve been out of medical hours ago.

Riley slumped forward to rest his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, trying to brush some of the weariness from his eyes. Then he straightened up.

“Gee, thanks Buck for checking I’m alright after I got my dumb ass shot,” he said drily. “No problem Scarecrow.”

Shane ached too much to laugh, but he offered up an apologetic half-smile.  
“You’re right, I’m sorry. Thanks for waiting.”

“Yeah well, somebody has to keep an eye on you,” Riley replied.

His voice was flat. His eyes, dull. It had been a difficult day for everyone – their first 18-84 on record – and Schofield wanted nothing more than to crawl into a steaming hot shower and then bed but there were still reports to file, superiors to debrief, and a shit-ton of bureaucratic red-tape to wade through after someone attempted to assassinate the President of the United States on his watch. He was bone deep exhausted and sore in a way that the painkillers couldn’t quite reach, but he could still see the edge on Buck Riley.

In the past few months, since that debacle in Utah that they weren’t supposed to talk about, Riley had started to loosen up around his teammates. Schofield had discovered that Buck wasn’t quiet because he didn’t have anything to say, but because he measured his words carefully. Behind his serious exterior was a sharp mind and an even sharper wit. He had taken to snagging the chair next to Buck in briefings because he muttered comments under his breath, quiet like, only for the person next to him to hear. Wry asides, drier than the fucking desert, that had Schofield struggling to keep his game face on.

In the past few months, they’d made progress. Their tour of duty on the Presidential helicopter was coming to an end and Schofield was headed back to recon. Hell, just last month, the higher up’s had told him he was being given a unit and to start thinking about who he wanted with him.  
Mother’s name was first on his list, but Buck Riley Junior was second.

But looking into Book II’s eyes today – eyes the exact same faded gray as his father’s – Schofield felt like that had all been wiped away. They were the same hard, accusing eyes that had burned holes on the back of Schofield’s neck when Riley had first joined the President’s detail.  

Feeling like he was stepping out onto thin ice, Schofield asked, “How’s the wrist?”  
He nodded his head at where Riley was unconsciously rubbing his thumb over the joint, the delicate skin that covered his pulse exposed.

“Doc says it’s fine,” Riley replied. “Your shoulder?”

Schofield shrugged.  
“Nothing a few stitches and a shot of morphine can’t handle.”

He was lucky. The wound was a through and through and had hit nothing important. A few weeks of gentle rehab and it would be like it never happened.

The assassination attempt had come just as the President was preparing to board Marine One. As responsibility for his safety transferred from the Secret Service to the marine honour guard, the cry had gone up – “Gun. He’s got a gun” – and the crowd which had gathered to see the president had turned into a stampede. Amidst the screams, a shot was fired. Then a dozen more as the secret service drew a bead on the shooter.

Buck Riley had been closest to the President, but only by a fraction.  
Schofield had been faster, but only by a fraction.

He had gotten his body in front of the President. His right shoulder had collided with Buck, who hit the ground awkwardly. The bullet had ripped clean through Schofield’s left shoulder.

Thankfully, that split second delay his body provided gave the President time to hit the ground.  
There had been no second shot. The gunman already lay dead. The President was swarmed by servicemen who escorted him safely inside the helicopter, and it was all over as fast as it had happened.

All except for the damage control, which was only just beginning.

Buck stared down at his clasped hands and muttered, “You didn’t have to do it.”

“What? Take a bullet for the President?” Schofield joked. “It’s not exactly my idea of fun either, but I’m pretty sure it’s in the job description.”

He tried to keep his tone light, but his gaze never left Riley’s face.

Riley’s eyes flicked across the room, landing on everything and nothing.  
“No,” he said softly, “I meant _you_ didn’t have to do that. There were others there too.”  
Finally, he met Schofield’s eyes.

Schofield stared back at him, his brow furrowed.

He couldn’t identify the emotion blazing out at him. In many ways, Buck Riley Junior was an easy read to him. He wasn’t a carbon copy of his dad in his personality, but he sure was in mannerisms.  
Only, Buck Riley Senior had never looked at him like this.

Shane replayed the scenario in his mind. The only other marine close enough to protect the President was Riley.  After a long moment, he finally pieced it together.

“Are you mad that I got shot today and not you? Because that’s pretty damn stupid - ”

It had all happened so fast. They had both reacted on instinct. It could just as easily have been Book with the bullet wound and Schofield with the guilty conscience.

Riley surged to his feet.

“I’m mad because you’re a stupid, reckless, son of a bitch.”

It was the closest Shane had ever come to hearing him yell.

“Jesus, I can’t win with you can I?” Shane shot back. He turned to leave, but then anger and what felt surprisingly like hurt swelled up with him and he rounded on Book. “No, you know what, you don’t get to say that. A few months ago you accused me of being too reckless with my men’s lives. Now you’re saying I should’ve let you get shot instead. Make up your goddamn mind.”

This time, he really did mean to leave but Riley crowded into his space and grabbed him. Schofield hissed as pain lanced through his wounded shoulder. The same shoulder Book’s hand was wrapped around. Immediately, Book stepped back, holding his hands up like he’d been burned.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he kept repeating.

Shane held up a hand, silencing him.

He breathed out and let go of the pain. Let some of the anger bleed out of him too. He took stock of Buck Riley. He looked a little sheepish, and a lot confused.

“I really thought we were passed this,” Shane said, after a long moment. “That we were working well together. Maybe we were even friends.”

“I don’t want to be your friend,” Riley mumbled. With his hands clasped before him and his face downcast, staring resolutely at the floor, Schofield was reminded sharply of a petulant school boy.

In that moment, Shane was glad for the sunglasses that masked his eyes and whatever emotion flashed through them. He clamped down hard on it, and willed the rest of his face into stone.

“Right,” he said coolly, “message received.”

“No, I meant - ”

This time, Buck physically stepped between him and the door, a solid weight blocking his path, but he didn’t reach out. He trailed off, unable, or maybe just unwilling to find the rest of his words.

Schofield just stared at him, didn’t move a muscle. He knew, he knew because he _knew_ this man like only people who trusted each other with their lives could, that given a little time, Book would work out what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. But until then, he would say nothing at all. Schofield studied his face, the furrow between his brows; saw the determined line of his jaw, watched the tick that leapt there, glanced down as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. He hadn’t stepped back, but stayed resolutely before Shane, who had never felt so aware before of the width of Riley’s shoulders and the two extra inches he had on him. Stubbornly, he tilted his head up to match Riley eye for eye.  
He saw the resolution settle across his features.

His gaze was drawn to Riley’s mouth, waiting for him to say something.

The air between them, and there was very little of it, buzzed with what felt like a challenge.

But Book didn’t say anything. He just stepped forward with resolve in his eyes, crowded Schofield so that his breath ghosted across his face.  

With a small private smile, he said “I’ve made up my mind.”

And he crushed their mouths together. The kiss knocked the wind out of Shane. For a single blinding moment, he felt everything. The wild press of Riley’s tongue against his, a sharp pain where his glasses cut into the bridge of his nose, knocked askew by the force of the kiss. Heat pooled at his hips, suddenly turned to burning when Riley palmed him through the fabric of his dress pants, reaching for the buckle. Shane's own hands, between their bodies, found the broad planes of Buck’s chest.

And he shoved him, hard.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Riley flew back, eyes wide in horror.

For the second time that night, he stammered out his apologies – “Jesus, oh shit, I’m sorry” – before he turned his back and got the hell out of there, leaving Schofield alone, breathless; his heart jack-hammering away in his chest, his injured shoulder and mouth burning.

It was over as fast as it had happened

All except for the damage control, which was only just beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

Letting him leave, that had been his first mistake.

Okay, maybe not his _first_ mistake, Schofield thought, but a mistake all the same. As soon as Buck Riley Junior’s retreating back had disappeared out the door, Schofield had intended to go after him. Which, of course, was when he realised he was still expected to report in to his superiors as soon as he was out of medical. Reluctantly, he made his way instead to Ramrod’s office.

Before that mess in Utah, the best that could be said of Colonel ‘Hot Rod’ Hagerty – better known as Ramrod by the troops under his command – was that he was a competent pencil pusher. But nowadays, he wasn’t even that. A sorry excuse for a marine, he had never quite recovered from Area 7. After Schofield himself had freed him from Lucifer Leary’s clutches and told him to clear out of the base before it self-destructed, Ramrod had done as ordered and scarpered. The rescue team didn’t find him until 48 hours later, wandering around the desert wastes, half-crazed with dehydration and still going on about his bloody Annapolis ring. But the Marine Presidential guard had lost too many good soldiers that day, and afterwards, they couldn’t afford to lose any more – even shitty ones like Ramrod. And since according to official record, nothing had happened at Area 7, there was no official reason to relieve him of his duties. So Ramrod Hagerty remained the White House Liaison officer, and Schofield’s direct superior.

After they had returned from Utah, Ramrod had even briefly attempted to follow through on his threat to have Schofield court-marshalled for insubordination.  
Until the President himself had put a stop to it.

Schofield had little patience for Ramrod Hagerty at the best of times, and this wasn’t the best of times. As the meeting dragged on – it was ironic really, that a megalomaniac like Caesar Russell could try and take out half the country using nothing less than the President himself as a glorified detonator and the whole event could be swept under the carpet, but one idiot with a gun and halfways decent aim could require so much paperwork – Schofield answered Ramrod’s questions increasingly staccato. He just wanted to make his report and get the hell out of there. He was sore and tired, and he could still feel the phantom press of Riley’s lips against him, the taste of him, the feel of his body beneath his own hands. It took everything he had to school his mind away from those thoughts, acutely aware that in this office, any trace of those thoughts could very well cost him (and Book II) dearly.

When Ramrod finally signed off on his report, the sun was setting. Shane stopped off at his apartment only long enough to grab one thing, and then headed out after Buck Riley. Maybe the few hours delay had been a blessing in disguise – given them both enough time to cool down a little and process things.

Sure.

Fortunately for Schofield, Buck Riley Junior had always preferred to face his issues head on. He was easy to find, sitting on the front porch of the building that housed the enlisted barracks on base.

As he approached, Buck watched him every step of the way.

Bracketed by the deep red sunset, Shane held out the bottle of bourbon.

“Peace offering?”

Riley kept his unnervingly flat gaze turned on him for a long minute, but then he took the proffered bottle, cracked the seal and took a few mouthfuls. Schofield watched the line of his throat, rising and falling with each swallow.

“What is this – a last drink for the condemned man?” Buck said, as he passed the bottle back to Schofield.

That distracted Shane enough to drag his eyes back up to meet Buck’s. It wasn’t the first time Riley had given him the feeling that he was being measured.  
“What does that mean?” He asked.

Buck ducked his head.  
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “I made a move on you. You should report it. You’re obliged to report it.”

Taken aback, Schofield sat down heavily on the steps beside him, took off his sunglasses and rubbed at his tired eyes. In the waning light, Riley’s face was inscrutable. Shane wrapped his own lips around the neck of the bottle, exactly where Riley’s had been moments ago.

“Is that really what you think of me?” He asked.

Riley kept his gaze fixed on the base of the steps, grass dewy in the moonlight.  
“I thought I made it pretty clear,” he said. “I think the world of you.”

Thinking back to their early days together in the Presidential Guard, Riley snuffed a wry laugh. Before he’d even met him, Shane Schofield had been the best marine his father had ever known, and an impossible standard against which he had to measure himself. Then he’d been the officer who had led his father to his death. It was only when he took this position, to keep an eye on Schofield, get his measure for himself – though admittedly not as the most unbiased judge – that he got to know the man. A man who was just as stubborn and reckless as he’d imagined, whose plans walked a fine line between tactical genius and sheer insanity, but who would do anything to bring his men home safely and who felt their losses keenly when he couldn’t; who did seem like superman at times, but also just a man who laughed and bled with his unit, who could be charmingly unaware of his own charms, and who had dimples when he smiled.

“It was a public place. Anyone could’ve walked in,” Schofield said, cutting across Riley’s thoughts. “I just panicked.”

Riley looked up sharply, a hint of curiosity in his steady gray eyes, but didn't say anything.

So Schofield pressed on.

“You know, when I first joined recon, your dad caught me in a – ” he paused, the corners of his mouth twitching with the beginnings of a smile at the memory “ – _compromising_ position with another officer.

Another male officer,” he clarified.

He felt, rather than saw, the surprise that crossed Riley’s face, in the almost imperceptible straightening of his body, the stiffness with which he held himself. “By all rights, he should have reported us both, but he didn’t. We never talked about it. He never even brought it up,” Schofield shrugged, “but I always took his silence to be implicit approval.”

Schofield chanced a sideways glance at Riley. He needed him to know, he wouldn’t have reported him; he _couldn’t_ have.  

“What about Gant?”

The question took Schofield by surprise.  
“What about her?”

“I thought you two were – ” Riley gestured awkwardly.

“Together?” Schofield finished for him, dimples on display with a cheeky grin. “We went on a few dates, sure, but she’s leaving. She’s going to OCS and god only knows where she’ll be posted after that. It wasn’t exactly the best start for a relationship.”

He leant backwards on his palms, so that one hand rested in the open space between their bodies.  
A clear invitation.

“Oh,” Buck said quietly.

Then, Shane felt the warm dry weight of Buck’s palm cover the back of his hand, and he smiled.

By now, the sun had well and truly set. Darkness had settled around them like a cool blanket, offering some relief from the scrutiny of the day. It would take a keen pair of eyes (or a set of night vision goggles) to see their clasped hands as they sat five inches apart, touching nowhere else. Still, Schofield felt a familiar prickle of unease.  

“Just so we’re clear,” he said. “This only works one of two ways. Either it stays completely casual. We go somewhere, get this out of our systems and never talk about it again. Or it’s serious enough to risk both our careers for. We don’t get a middle ground option.”

He met Buck’s eyes, almost black in the moonlight and blazing, his fingers digging tighter into Schofield’s.  
“I don’t do casual.”

Schofield nodded once, then stood up abruptly. The movement triggered a motion detector which flooded the porch, and the pair of them with light. Riley had to twist to look up at him, squinting in the sudden illumination.

“Where are you going?” He asked.

The night had settled cool, but Shane felt heat creeping over him.

“I think I’m going to go upstairs,” he said, already heading for the door without looking back. “You coming?”


End file.
